


Steel

by 1mysteries



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Alternative Perspective, Angst, Depression, F/M, Masturbation in Shower
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-10-18
Updated: 2016-10-18
Packaged: 2018-08-23 06:57:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8318272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1mysteries/pseuds/1mysteries
Summary: Two months after helping the Brotherhood destroy the Institute, killing her son in the process, Sentinel Marigold Bergman is still struggling to come to terms with her new life, as well as the extent of her losses. At the same time, Elder Maxson finds himself wrestling with feelings he hasn't experienced since his youth, distracting him from the Brotherhood's plans in the Commonwealth.Alternating perspective, medium burn Maxson/Female Sole Survivor fic, takes place roughly two months after the Brotherhood ending of the main quest. Slightly AU in that Synth Shaun doesn’t exist – and to be quite honest, I’ll probably play hard and fast with some aspects of the world, depending on my whims and how the story shapes up. I have a few Brotherhood OC side characters who will pop in and out. *Update 09/23/2017* To anyone out there: I've had chapter 3 and 4 written for a few months now, but everything is terrible and I'm working on a different novel length work, so the next update is scheduled for Fall 2018 :'''')





	1. Shade

“Almost done,” Field Scribe Baird called out, voice muffled beneath the sweater he had pulled to cover his mouth and nose. The December sun was setting, and the shadows in the former reading room of the Boston Public Library were rapidly lengthening. Sentinel Marigold Bergman had exited her power armor to rummage for books scattered among its collapsed furniture. Dust hung heavy, still visible in the half-shade of the evening.

Knight Castillo, the second escort of the research patrol, stood staring into a side room off the library’s entrance hall. He leaned forward in his power armor, rooted in place, clutching his laser rifle. Besides the occasional cough, only Field Scribe Baird’s typing could be heard, where the man worked to transfer the library's terminal’s pre-war data to a series of holodiscs. Half-a-dozen Super Mutant corpses surrounded the trio, blood cooling and clotting on the cracked marble floors.

The stench of laser-scorched flesh combined with the thick dust to make it difficult to breathe, and Marigold habitually rubbed at her stinging eyes as she thumbed through the pre-war volumes. Nostalgia pushed her to check each book thoroughly, even those too burnt or brittle to be worth taking, though her field backpack was already nearly full: technical documents for Proctor Quinlan, some preserved women’s interest magazines, and the few worthwhile pre-war books she’d found—besides the requisite ammo and medical supplies.

Knight Castillo’s power armor creaked.

“Sentinel—I think I hear something,” the Knight’s voice was low, deadened by dust and distance. He braced himself in the middle of the wide door frame and lifted his rifle into shooting position. The safety clicked off.

She and the field scribe stopped. Listened.

Nothing.

_Shit._

Marigold pushed off her knees, lunged towards her suit, unlocked it— _open, dammit_ —and had begun to clamber into it when Castillo cried out in alarm. He opened fire; the swarm had descended.

The knight straddled, but did not fill, the entrance, and a horde of feral ghouls had surrounded him, three throwing themselves past his failed barrier towards her. Before her power armor had closed, one rushed on her and flung its arms round her half-enclosed body, hands grasping, scraping at steel and skin. The nails of one of its hands tore through her uniform, ripping below her left shoulder. Pain shot through her back, her arm, touched her lung; she gasped; her vision tunneled. Suddenly it shrieked as its hand, torn from its arm, was crushed by the hydraulic snap of the suit shutting completely.

The first ghoul had stumbled away, screeching at its stump, as the two other ghouls reached her.

They began to bite and clutch at her armor; she lurched towards her laser rifle, where it lay beside a pile of books. But she was unsteady, had lunged too far, and under the heavy weight of the ghouls hanging and pulling and pressing, the suit crashed to the ground. As she struggled to grab the gun, they gripped her, covered her, their faces so close she could see the teeth ripping from their bloodied gums as they tried to rend the armor from its frame. So close she didn’t need to aim.

They crumpled on top of her in quick succession, half-disintegrated.

She shoved the limp bodies away and struggled to her feet. Castillo had taken most of the others down, and those remaining he was bludgeoning with the butt of his rifle

Suppressing a gasp of pain, Marigold lifted her gun to shooting position and took aim.

Between her shots—poorly aimed as they were—and his pummeling, the remaining ghouls dropped quickly. With a dull crack, the skull of the last ghoul caved in beneath a blow from Castillo’s rifle butt. Blood pounded in Marigold's ears as she watched the body slowly, then quickly, slump to meet the floor. She glanced round; she didn’t see their field scribe.

“Baird?” she called out. Her throat was hoarse and her mouth tasted metallic; the wound in her shoulder throbbed in time with her heart and her back burned with each breath. But it was fading.

“All good, Sentinel!” a voice replied from under the desk. His hat, head, then body emerged from where he had been hiding. Between coughs, the field scribe pushed his goggles up and pulled the sweater from his mouth and nose; dust coated what little skin had been exposed. “I’ve done this before,” he said with a wink.

Knight Castillo was rifling through the ghouls’ corpses, indiscriminately ripping clothing and aged skin alike.

“Just a few caps.” he said, kicking a body.

Marigold hardly heard him. She could feel her limbs shaking. She could feel her heart racing. She could feel the pain in her arm, her shoulder, her back---but it had begun buzzing somewhere on the border of her consciousness. Everything was somewhere on the border. The arm hung limp in her power armor.

Field Scribe Baird watched her for a few moments, before speaking:

“Sentinel? Are you okay?”

When she waved vaguely at him without replying, he frowned and walked towards her. “Sister, we should see to whatever it is-” As he spoke he drew a stimpack from one of his uniform’s many pouches, and motioned for her to exit her armor.

“No,” Knight Castillo cut in, “Not until we _actually_ secure this room, scribe. We can’t afford another mishap. Sentinel, I’m going to barricade the doors.” Marigold could hear his expression beneath his helmet, one dark eyebrow raised, a sneering frown on his tanned face.

She nodded towards him; her head felt heavy.

“The scratch can wait,” she said. Yes, she thought. It could. Her voice sounded distant, but the pain wasn't terrible anymore. Barricading wouldn't be a problem.

Baird eyed her for a few seconds before returning the stimpack to its pouch and moving to help Castillo. While they began the work of barricading the doorway, Marigold used her good arm to slowly pile the corpses, ghoul and mutant alike, together. Despite her complicated feelings towards pre-war military scientists, as she maneuvered the super mutant corpses, she couldn't help thanking them for power armor. Yes. She thought absently. Her thoughts drifted. Even with power armor, she mused, there were still so many books to look through. She would want to return to the location with Danse or Ada; someone who could carry a heavy load.

By the time they had finished, the room was completely dark. Both Castillo and Marigold had tried turning on their headlamps, but the dust reflected by the narrow beams of lights had only made it more difficult to see.

Baird clapped his gloved hands together, kicking up motes.

“Alright Bergman, open ‘er up. Let’s take a look at that scratch—Knight Castillo, if you could lend us some light?”

Castillo's lamp blinked to life, then swept towards her.

The three arrange themselves into a triangle, Castillo and Baird facing her back. Adrenaline had numbed her perception of the pain, but it couldn't reverse the blood loss or exhaustion; and as she stepped out of the power armor, her legs immediately gave way. The knight caught her and eased her to a sitting position on the ground, and with a wet thud, the remains of the hand, tendon and bone, fell to the floor alongside her. Castillo nudged the detritus away from the group, muttering under his breath. Squatting, Baird leaned in to get a better look at her back. The cool air told her how far her blood had spread, how much of her uniform had been ripped away. The buzzing began to fade.

“Shit, that’s ugly,” Baird’s voice betrayed his grimace, “This is more than just a scratch, but,” he gingerly touched the gash, eliciting a sharp cry from Marigold. The buzz was gone, “It should be fine. The stimpack’ll help, but you’re probably going to need stitches, a bath, some rest… and a new uniform. Might scar,” Behind her she heard a rustle, followed by the tinkle of glass, “A med-x can help with the pain until we’re back at the police station. Deep breath. I’m administering the medications now.”

Then all at once the adrenaline wore off, and everything, pain and dizziness, hit at once; squeezed her eyes shut. But she had been here before, and between snatches of half-remembered prayer began to count her breaths. Focus.

_One._

_St. Michael the Archangel..._

“I’m surprised you don’t have the medic pump mod for your T-60, Sentinel,” Knight Castillo was kneeling beside the two, still holding Marigold’s right arm, “Mine injects me automatically when I get hurt. I thought that was standard among the higher ranks.”

_Six._

_Defend us in battle..._

“Yours doesn’t have a jetpack, Knight,” she said.

The relief was beginning to flooding through her, and for a brief moment time felt suspended: her pulse slowed, her body relaxed, and the darkness, thick with dust, blocked the trio from the rest of the world. They were alone; she was alone. She smiled.

“...would have died if not for the medic pump mod. She told me herself,” Castillo was saying. She was no longer alone. Pressing her right hand to her burning cheek, she spoke:

“We should head back to the Cambridge station. I'm feeling a little better. Thanks you two. Castillo, I have extra fusion cells in my field pack—no. Don’t bother. I can get up on my own.”

While Baird finished his data transfer and locked the terminal (“ _For the safety of the Commonwealth”_ ), she and Castillo gathered the supplies and documents they had scavenged. Within the half hour they had left the building.

 

*

  

“You’re fidgeting. Need more med-x?” Scribe Haylin asked. The young woman was working very diligently, and very gently, to stitch Marigold’s lacerations.

“Yes.” Marigold replied through gritted teeth, “And a bath.”

“I’ll give you a half dose.”

Haylin paused her stitching to administer the medication before returning her attention to the wound. On finishing, Haylin touched Marigold’s shoulder and stood up.

“All good, Sentinel. The wound was deep and you lost some blood, so you’ll probably want to keep administering stimpacks over the next few days, but you should be back to normal soon. I’ll see if I can get you a spare uniform—and maybe some soap and water,” Haylin hesitated, “That spot might be tough to clean by yourself.”

Marigold grinned and thanked her, but when Haylin had left the room the smile dropped and she leaned forward in her chair, her elbows on her knees, pressing her closed eyes to her fists. It had been days since she had slept for more than a few hours at a time, weeks since she hadn’t woken from that sleep with a racing heart and skin cold with sweat. After the first few nights like that, over a year ago, her whole body had begun to hurt, and had never stopped since. At times she felt as if she was watching her body from a distant vantage point, walking at the bottom of some dark sea, each movement a strain and each word a waste of precious breath. Heavy. The sleep—the episodes—had begun soon after she was awoken from cryostasis, breasts still leaking milk, ears still ringing from the blast; hands raised in praise, petition, plea, and finally, pantomime, towards God. And it had only grown worse in the weeks since that day at the Institute.

She heard a knock at the door, followed by a cheery, “Back! With soap!” The small side room they were in afforded some privacy while Haylin helped to wash and dry the injury. They made shallow conversation: the winter weather, the Brotherhood’s latest successes and failures, Haylin’s research. A few offhand remarks about Knight Rhys. Then Haylin mentioned she had traveled to Sanctuary Hills recently to see Danse, and how he had told her Marigold hadn’t visited the settlement in almost two months, and how he had asked Haylin to tell Marigold the fall harvest had been a success, and how there had been a couple new buildings erected since she had last visited. That trade was prospering. That he was okay. Marigold crossed her arms, said she hadn’t realized it had been quite that long, obliquely mentioned she needed to finish washing up, that it was late, she was pretty tired, and she was sure Haylin needed to get some sleep as well. Thank you again, goodnight.

After Haylin left, Marigold changed into the new uniform; its sleeves and inseams were too short, made with a shorter, thinner post-nuclear body in mind. She would need to have a men's version tailored to fit. Eventually. For now, she thought, she needed to get cleaned up and try to sleep. In the bathroom, the mirror was broken, and the light from the bare bulb cast each imperfection into stark relief. She leaned forward and examined the skin closely in one of the largest shards. Compared to—how long had it been since the bomb? Thirteen months? Fourteen?—there were so many new freckles, dark circles, fresh scars. The beginnings of smile lines? She dipped a fresh rag into the pail of water and thought wistfully about cold cream as she began to wipe; first what remained of the red lipstick, then her attempts at post-war mascara, and finally the sweat and dirt coating her face and neck. Her copper curls had fallen flat, but she didn’t have the energy to re-pin and re-set them. Limp, greasy hair would have to do until they had returned to the airport. She frowned at the thought and began to clean her body. Upon finishing, the water in the pail had turned an opaque grey-brown, dark and gritty and smelling of mineral.

Most of the cots were filled when she entered the sleeping quarters. She crept into the closest bed as the snores of her Brothers and Sisters waxed and waned around her, closed her eyes, and prayed for endless, dreamless sleep.

 

 


	2. Memory

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Maxson seemed to really giving his inspirational monologues to his staff, so I was like. Hey! Let’s add an inspiration monologue in here! In fact, let’s have Maxson give MULTIPLE inspirational monologues throughout this fic!

Arthur stood at the fore of the Prydwen's command deck, gripping the railing. To an observer, Elder Maxson appeared to be contemplating something deeply unpleasant. His broad shoulders were rigid under his padded battlecoat, his posture stiff, his jaw clenched.

Then the door to the flight deck opened, and the tension eased for a moment before Arthur realized who had entered. The group—a field scribe, a knight, and the Sentinel—had stopped to talk amongst themselves, the latter two towering above the former in their T-60 power armor. Each member carried multiple bags heavy with what looked to be documents and books. A field escort mission, he thought, and frowned.

Apparently satisfied with the conclusion reached, each went their separate way: the field scribe climbed up to the main deck, the knight took the stairs down to Kells, and the Sentinel knelt to search through one of her bags. Arthur hesitated for a moment, before calling out,

“Sentinel. A word.”

The helmet swiveled in his direction. Paused. Then the suit began clanking towards him, bags in tow. Metal on metal. He straightened his back, squared his shoulders, and drew himself to his full height.

“Elder Maxson,” she said upon reaching him. He waited for her to finish removing her helmet before launching into the monologue he had been outlining in his head for days.

“I wanted to speak with you regarding your work the past two months,” He found himself struggling to meet her gaze, and instead focused on her forehead, “I spoke to Lancer-Captain Kells recently. He passed along comments made by some squires you’ve taken on training patrols. You’ve made quite an impression, Sentinel,” Arthur allowed himself a brief smile, directed at her chin, “Additionally, Proctor Quinlan tells me you’ve done an outstanding job of aiding the Brotherhood’s research missions. I wanted to commend you. You’ve gone above and beyond your duty. I understand that as a Sentinel, you have a great deal more freedom with your time than most others, yet you’ve also done a great deal more with that time than most others. You’ve served as an excellent example to your Brothers and Sisters in the Brotherhood.”

For one of the first times in years, Arthur realized he was self-conscious of the punctuating gestures that had become second-nature to him when speaking. Suddenly and painfully aware of his hands, he returned to parade rest and forced himself to look her in the eye.

Marigold cleared her throat and thanked him; she was pleased to have been of service. For all her words, however, he noted that she was avoiding his gaze, just as he had avoided hers---and hypocritical as it was, Arthur couldn't keep his frustrating from flaring. A subordinate avoiding eye contact was irritating, doubly so when _she_ was that subordinate. Before he could comment, though, she had returned her eyes to his with a tight smile,

“If I may be totally honest, sir, my work hasn’t been selfless. Some of the research has become a personal interest of mine, and escorting the research patrols has allowed me to find some pre-war material,” Marigold gestured to one of her bags, where a few books peaked out.

Arthur hesitated; he had not foreseen this. In his daydreams they would talk about—connect through—a shared passion for the Brotherhood: its ideals, its history, perhaps even its leaders... Maybe, he had found himself hoping, she would have blushed. Maybe she would have smoothed her hair, curled and shining. Maybe she would have acted like some of the men and women in the Brotherhood when they spoke to him. Maybe she wouldn’t have been so damned _distant,_ like always _._ Something. Anything. He had admired her cool professionalism when she first joined, but things had changed—and now he was the one flushing, and she was talking about _books_.

“I don’t want to take undue credit,” she added.

He found his voice, but could feel a scowl forming as the chill of disappointment set in.

“Is that so, Sentinel?”

She nodded, said yes sir.

“What books have you found? As you know, any technical documents must be turned into Proctor Quinlan.”

“Of course, sir. I think this time I found a collection of poetry, a small book of fairy tales, and—well. I can’t remember. We had some trouble near the end of the mission.” Marigold's speech had gradually slowed as she spoke, and in the back of his mind Arthur wondered what memory she was revisiting.

“I assume it’s safe to say the trouble wasn’t too serious?”

She nodded again.

This was becoming ridiculous.

“Do you keep your collection here on the Prydwen, Sentinel?” He folded his arms in front of him, drew himself to his full height, “Is Proctor Ingram aware of this, Sentinel?”

Everything was turning out wrong. He had tried in his own way to change the dynamic, but she didn't seem to understand what he was trying to communicate, and he hardly knew himself what he was trying to communicate, and for-the-love-of-God he was admonishing her when all he wanted to do was---what?

“Yes sir,” she said, “Well. Most of it. I have some books stored with friends at a settlement… but I did discuss it with Proctor Ingram. She said it’d be fine as long as I kept the number reasonable,” Marigold smiled coyly, “Then asked if I’d found any romance novels.”

As she spoke he had allowed his gaze to drift from his self-imposed, self-conscious focus on her eyes, down to the freckles scattered across her nose and cheekbones, to her red lips, to the shine of a still-healing scar on her chin. Her grin faded when he didn’t react.

Pre-occupied.

Marigold looked down at him, her expression questioning, from the full height of her power armor. Without it she would have been only a few inches shorter than him, taller than most post-war women he had met. He liked that. The sounds of the Prydwen continued around the two, wind outside the hull, distant conversation in the bridge, quiet creaks. The red light of the command deck emphasized the copper of Marigold’s hair and the color of her neatly painted lips. It turned her blue eyes black, and in the dimness her pupils had grown large. He could not read them.

She broke the silence.

“I should get these documents to Proctor Quinlan before it gets too late,” she said, “Thank you, Elder. For the commendations and conversation.”

A pause.

She turned to look out the windows and when she spoke, her voice was quiet and quick, and the rhythm reminded Arthur of the pre-war songs he had grown up hearing in the Citadel.

“Everyone is welcome to browse my collection, sir. Not just Proctor Ingram.”

His heart beat quickened. She had returned to looking at him with another attempt at a smile.

“I see,” he said.

The smile slipped from her face.

“Then I’ll take my leave, Elder.”

He nodded.

“Dismissed, Sentinel.”

It was only after the last echo of her departure had faded that Arthur allowed himself to release his breath and return to his place at the windows. With a scowl, he began to drum his fingers on the railing. Dusk had fallen on the Commonwealth, and as he replayed their conversation in his head, the red light of the sun, and the red light of the deck, and the red tones of her hair, her lips, her scar, bled together somewhere in his chest. Too much. This was too much.

His fingers stilled. He’d said his piece, and she’d responded in a manner appropriate to her rank—and regardless, she was a distraction from his duty. With everything that needed planning and doing, he didn’t have time to think—or feel—the things he was thinking and feeling. With one last glance at the Commonwealth’s ruins, he turned and summoned the second watch Knight on guard, requesting Lancer-Captain Kells’ presence.

 

*

 

Arthur pressed his spent cigarette into an ashtray; ground it; released it. Watched the orange glow fade into dust. The Prydwen was quiet outside his door. He reclined in his chair and looked at the words displayed on his terminal, the beginnings of an email to the Proctors. His meeting with Kells had gone well; they had agreed on a timeline for the project, solidified the steps that needed to be taken to reach their targets, and discussed what Maxson needed from each Order. Despite having their primary objective in the Commonwealth completed— _was she favoring her right arm?_ _—_ the Brotherhood didn’t have the pleasure of resting on its laurels. If the Commonwealth were to ever achieve the stability its people deserved, the Brotherhood would need more: more strength, more security, more resources. A base to rival the Citadel. His gaze drifted to rest on the terminal’s clock—2:34 AM—and he glanced at his empty glass. Too late for another drink. Maybe. Probably. He considered the idea for a few moments more before dismissing it, then dragged his hand down his face and through his beard.

He exhaled.

Tension pulled behind his eyes, pressed at his temples. Leaning forward in his chair, Arthur tugged his boots off, powered down the terminal, then rose to his feet and began stripping in preparation for a shower. His gloves, then his coat, then his socks, then the buckles and zips of his Brotherhood uniform, and then—he had reached his personal bathroom, had turned on the shower. With weight on the Prydwen at a premium, Arthur had access to the only private shower on the airship; for the rest of the staff, there was a shared facility that allowed three to four in at a time. From what he understood, however, some members preferred to skip showering rather than wash alongside their Brothers and Sisters. Unacceptable.

As steam began to build in the small room, Arthur stepped out from his underwear into the stall, exhaling sharply as the scalding water hit his skin. He let the water works its way through thick black hair of his head, beard, chest, down his stomach and further, then grabbed the crude bar of soap standard issue in the Brotherhood and began to scrub. Half-formed thoughts, vague lists, and brief scraps of rhetoric drifted through his mind as he cleaned, beginning with the hair on his head and moving downward.

Memories.

One in particular.

It was of an evening, _that_ evening, more summer than fall, when the molecular relay had been completed. A clap like thunder, a light blue and bright, a burst of ozone, and then, absence: of body, sound, light. He had stood there, his stomach at his feet, ears ringing, vision blinded. Sick, nameless anxiety he hadn’t experienced since he was a boy. Why? Proctor Ingram had said something at that moment, but he couldn’t—or wouldn’t—hear it.

Late one night, just a few weeks ago, he had been able to admit to himself what he had felt then, the same as he had felt those years ago: loss. Marigold could leave, and she had left—on a mission that had an extremely high chance of failure in death. And if not that, then more broadly: she could leave the Brotherhood, lose herself in the Commonwealth, never return. He had heard her mention the Minutemen, new settlements, others, outside the Brotherhood. A world, her world, outside the Brotherhood. And as the weeks had gone by, and they had come closer and closer to destroying the Institute, and days would go by without him seeing her, he realized that his fear wasn’t just her leaving forever.

The suds had drained away and the water would soon cool, but Arthur remained in the stream, gaze fixed on the metal wall opposite of him. Each memory brought with it another; another; many others.

Last month, Knight Sergeant Gavil had invited him on an early morning tour of Boston Airport’s rapidly expanding facilities. A contingent of Scribes from the Order of the Quill had been working to install plumbing throughout the base, and Gavil was showing off the flushing toilets and working showers of the shared bathrooms when the Sentinel arrived, fresh from a mission. She had nodded in greeting and stood off to one side, holding her towel and toiletries to her chest, while Gavil explained the details. When he and the Knight Sergeant had turned to leave, passing through the doorway, Arthur heard the shower start. Gavil had talked on, unaware, but Arthur had glanced behind them; facing the stalls with her back towards them, Marigold had begun to unzip her uniform, pulling her arms from its sleeves, letting the uniform fall from her shoulders to rest on her hips. Her waist and back were fair and smooth, unblemished, and he saw the beginnings of dimples peaking out from the beneath the uniform—then the door swung shut, and he was left with a stiff cock straining against the seam of his uniform.

And the memory.

As he recalled the scene more vividly, he let his mind’s eye languish on the details, explore new possibilities: the curve of her hips, the muscles of her back, how her skin might feel beneath his lips. He felt the familiar tension beginning, and leaned against the cool wall of the stall. As heat spread from his cock to his core to his cheeks, he closed his eyes and let his right hand rest on his growing erection, his left hand cupping his tightening balls. He started to stroke himself, slowly, drawing out the pleasure with each pull. His fantasies moved beyond that memory; he imagined how it would to feel to slide his cock between her thighs, her ass pressed against him; to tease her, coax her, fill her; how her body would respond to his touch, tensing around his length, a moan from her parted lips. Red. At that thought his grip tightened and he began to pump his cock in earnest, thick and hard and flushed, more quickly. His breath grew ragged as the pressure and pleasure built; he was fondling, gently tugging, at his balls—then the tension peaked, broke, and with a low groan he spilled himself onto the metal floor.

The water was cool on his fevered skin, and its steady drumming drowned out the sound of his panting. He let the last contractions of pleasure fade and his pulse slow, then pushed himself from the wall and turned the shower off.

Tomorrow would be busy.

 


End file.
